


On the Road Again

by LMT



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-06 10:13:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 8,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18848980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LMT/pseuds/LMT
Summary: Arya and the Hound head down to take care of their business in King's Landing.  (S8-divergent.  Because "Sandor: thank you" wasn't quite enough for me!!).





	1. Chapter 1

******A/N: I have some issues with how the show wrapped up the Hound and Arya's last murder jag, but mainly, I wish they had devoted more time to it! So here is my take. I'm not sure yet whether it will be canon-compliant, or whether I'll do something else with the end. We can all be in suspense together, I guess. :-)**

* * *

They lay on opposite sides of the fire, just like old times. Except this time, it was silent.

“You don’t say it out loud anymore,” he chuckled.

“It’s just Cersei now,” she said. “And I’m on my way to kill her, so I’m not about to forget it.” He heard her shift around. “The Mountain’s off, because I’m leaving him for you.”

“Appreciated.”

“You’re off too.”

“Also appreciated.” He shifted too, so he could face her. He didn’t love looking at her through flames, but he was far enough away that his heart didn’t hammer. “You're not worried that you’re on _my_ list though? After what you did?”

“You mean after what I _didn’t_ do.” Her face was smooth, her eyes dark and unblinking as a lizard’s. “But no, I’m not worried. Beric was quicker on the draw, but you got between me and the dead things too.”

The last thing he needed was to let anybody become soft, so, he huffed and said: “Habit.”

Didn’t help; she smiled and touched her fingers to her forehead in salute. “It’s a good habit; don’t lose it.”

He rolled back onto his back. “Shut up and sleep,” he ordered. “I’ve got to kill my brother before the dragon queen does, and if you slow me down I’ll leave you in a ditch somewhere.”

He heard her roll over too. “Fine,” she said. Pretending at offense. “Good night to you too.” 

* * *

TBC.

Probably. I have some ideas for this but I _don't_ have the whole thing all planned out. So, if you have thoughts on what these two need to say to each other, or any particular things that should happen on the journey, let me know.

Also, regarding lizards: I know "unblinking" is not right.  And my geckos used to lick their own eyeballs and that's not what i'm suggesting Arya was doing.   But I suspect the Hound is not a lizard connoisseur; he imagines reptiles' eyes are flat & creepy.

 


	2. Chapter 2

When he was bored of riding quiet he sometimes asked questions.  “All right: who else?”

“Meryn Trant.  I got him.  _Really_ got him.”  It seemed killing was still one of her favorite topics.  “It was great.  All I’d brought was a little knife, so, I got to stab him and stab him.  I put his eyes out, talked to him a while, and cut his throat at the end.”

He leaned over and spat.  “Good fucking riddance.”

She looked at him – surprised.  “I thought you didn’t care about Syrio?”

“Syrio?”

“My- my Braavosi swordmaster.  The reason Ser Meryn was on my list in the first place.  Do you remember?  You used to make fun-”

“Right, right, right.  I remember.”

He could feel her still looking at him.  Wished she would stop.  Finally she asked: “So then why did _you_ want him dead?”

He wasn’t in the business of telling lies.  “None of your damn business.”

“But I want to know.”  She laughed a little.  “And _he’s_ not around to tell me, so... Why?  Come on.  Why?”

He shrugged.  Scowled.  “I liked it better when you were a mute.”

“Come _on._   Tell me why.  Come on.  I’m going to keep asking.”

“Ask your fucking sister,” he snapped at last.

She pulled her horse up sharp.  “My sister?”

“Aye.  Are you deaf?”

“Why – what did he do to my sister?  Hey.  Hey.  _Sandor,_ ” she barked, as he kept riding away from her.  “What did he do to my sister?”

He shook his head.  But the girl came close again, and it was apparent she wouldn’t let it be, so finally he just explained: “Nothing.  Just hit her a couple of times, that’s all.  Joffrey’s orders.”

The girl was quiet a while.  Then she said, with certainty: “That’s not all.  You wouldn’t care if that were all.”

He sighed.  “That _is_ all.  Stripped her down and beat her a little.  It’s just it was ugly. Her crying, begging for her life.  Fucking ugly.”

Quiet again.  Then, incredibly:  “Stripped her down.  So you’ve seen my sister naked?”

“No.  It wasn’t all the way, and, I didn’t look.”  He frowned at her.  “Why the fuck d’you care about _that_?”

She shrugged.  “I don’t know.  My sister used to be pretty, naked.  Not so much anymore though, since Ramsay.  I wish I could have killed Ramsay too.  So why didn’t you stop them?”

“They weren’t going to kill her,” he muttered.  “Cersei’d said.”

“And you trusted _Cersei_?  After what happened to my father?”

His turn to shrug.  He didn’t exactly give a fuck and a half about Ned Stark, but, she didn’t need to know that.  “If anyone had tried to kill your sister,” he said instead, “I’d have stopped it.”

“Well that’s big of you.  You only let them torture her; you wouldn’t have let them go all the way.”

She hadn’t sounded this disgusted with him since the very beginning.  He tried to laugh it off.  “Back on your list, am I?”

Arya didn’t laugh back.  “No,” she said seriously.  “If Sansa’s forgiven you, I won’t second guess her.”  She pulled ahead, then, so they couldn’t talk any more.  “Lucky for you.”

* * *

TBC.

It's not all sunshine and flowers for the murder duo.


	3. Chapter 3

“There’s an inn not far from here,” she said.  She hadn’t talked to him all day.  “We have to stop there.  It’s hardly out of the way, and they’ll have drink for you, and good food, and a real bed.”

So _now_ she wanted to talk to him, because she _wanted_ something.  “Inns are crowded.  I like it better outdoors.  Even in the cold.”

“I don’t care.  I want to go.”  She was quiet for a moment, then explained: “My friend’s there – or at least, he was.  I want to see him if I can.  I really don’t have many friends.”

He waited a second to see if he felt like fighting about it… but he didn’t.  Resigned and indulgent was all he felt; he would _have_ to find his edge again before they reached the capital but for the moment it didn’t matter.  He sighed.  “How far out of the way?”

The girl relaxed.  “Thanks.”  Still short and scowling, but it was clear a thaw was coming. 

…And sure enough, she was soon chatting again.  “It’s more peaceful here than last time.   We haven’t been bothered once, but last time we traveled, we were fighting for our lives about every other day.”

“Mm.”  He’d noticed too.  “War cleared out some of the scum, I guess.”  But on second thought, that likely wasn’t it.  Scum tended to survive the wars, and plagues, and everything else.  “And what scum is left, isn’t about to bother us now.”  He chuckled.  “Last time I looked like a drunk vagabond, and you were a little girl.”

“You _still_ look like a drunk vagabond,” she deadpanned.  Then gave that satisfied little smirk of hers.  “You’re right though, that’s probably it.  Everyone can see that we’re no one to fuck with.”  She was quiet for a bit, thoughtful, then:  “For a little while, a girl was no one at all.”  He gave her a questioning look, so she explained.  “That’s what we said of ourselves at the House of the Black and White.  A Faceless Man is no one.”

She didn’t seem to be joking.  “I heard people say you're a Faceless Man.  Wasn't sure if it was true.”

“It was.”  She smiled a little.  “I wasn’t very good at it, though.  I wouldn’t give up my sword.  Or my list.  I was never _really_ no one.  I think that’s why they threw me out.”

“Threw you out?  That’s nice of them.  I always heard that when you fail the Faceless Men, they kill you.  Chop you into pieces and peel off your skin for the next person to use.”

“They did send someone after me.  Promised me to the Many-Faced God.”  So calm she might as well have been talking about what she liked for breakfast.  “But it turns out you can satisfy the Many-Faced God if you turn around and give _that_ person to him instead.  Which is what I did.  It was the fight of my life.  I’ll tell you about it sometime.”

“Chopped him into pieces, did you?”

“It was a _her_.”  She snorted.  “I think.  Anyway no, we don’t chop people into pieces, that’s a myth.”  Her smile was strange.  “But we do take the face.  We can do things with it.”

He regarded her silently. 

“What?”

Finally he shrugged.  “And you wonder why you don’t have any friends.” 

* * *

**TBC.**

**I’m going to go ahead and assume Hot Pie is still alive and still cooking.   I have to believe _somebody_ is getting a happy ending!!**

 


	4. Chapter 4

It was wonderful to see Hot Pie, but their reunion was only a few minutes because he was scurrying around in the kitchen, overseeing the whole thing now, and couldn’t be spared.  They hugged, they talked, they agreed to meet up after the dinner hour was over.  And Arya sat down next to the Hound in the dining room, in a really good mood, to eat and drink and wait for him.

Eating and drinking was going fine, until a drunk boy came to bother her.  “What’s a pretty girl like you doing with an ugly beast like him?”

She could see from the way the Hound stiffened that he’d heard that, but he just buried his face in his drink and ignored it.

 _She_ didn’t. If she wanted her traveling companion insulted, she would damn well do it herself.  “I’m fucking him,” she said clearly.  “Every night.  He’s really good at it.”  The boy’s shock was funny, so she went on.  “Want to see?  I can hold you down, and he’ll fuck you too.”

At that, the Hound turned slowly in his seat to glower at her.  And at the poor boy, who sat frozen with his mouth wide open.

The boy got up and left without another word.  She thought it was hilarious.

The Hound didn’t.  “Next time just say I’m your father,” he muttered into his drink.  “For fuck’s sake.”

The boy had fled all the way across the room.  She couldn’t stop giggling.  Perhaps she was getting drunk.  (Hot Pie was right; the wine was really good.).

The Hound was ignoring her, except to periodically glance her way and glare, so she looked for amusement elsewhere.  There was another boy, at another table, who kept trying to catch her eye.  She smiled, bit her lip, and played eyeball tag with him until he took the bait and came over.

“Hello,” this one said, “My name is-”

“This is my father,” Arya interrupted, reaching up to drape her arm over the Hound’s shoulder. “I’m fucking him.  Every night.  He’s really good at it.  Want to see?  I can-”

“Fuck off!”  The Hound threw her off, almost hard enough to knock her over, and sent the poor boy scurrying away with a wordless snarl. 

She tried to stop laughing, but couldn’t.  When he gave her a look of helpless exasperation she _really_ couldn’t, and laughed so hard she had to grab on to him or fall out of her seat.

“Enough already,” he growled.

“Sorry.”  She was still laughing.  “He annoyed me.  What should I have done, eat all his chicken and cut his head off?”  She looked around.  “That would kind of spoil the atmosphere, don’t you think?”

“You’re drunk.”  She giggled through closed lips and didn’t bother to deny it.  “Everybody else got drunk and ridiculous the night after the battle – that’s what you’re _supposed_ to do.  Not save it up to annoy me with two weeks later.”

“I didn’t feel like being drunk then.”

“And apparently tonight you do.”  He took her glass from her hand.  “But that’s drunk enough.”

“It is _not_!”  She tried to reach over him and take it back.

He stiff-armed her and lifted her half out of her seat, by the neck.  (The last person to grab her this way had got a Valyrian steel dagger in the guts and shattered into a million tiny frozen pieces, but, she didn’t reach for a knife or anything because she was feeling magnanimous and really just wanted her drink back.).  He looked her over – and looked amused.  “You planning to meet up with that fat boy from the kitchens?” he said.

She didn’t understand.  “You mean Hot Pie?  Yes, I said so.”

“Do you want to fuck him or fight him?”

“Do I-…?”  Arya blinked.  “No.”

The Hound smirked at her and put her down.  “Get any drunker, and you’re going to do one of the two.”  He held her drink out to her and waited.

“Nobody asked your stupid opinion,” she said, but poured herself some water instead. 

(And he drank her wine.). 

* * *

 

TBC. 

Poor Arya never really cuts loose.  She should!


	5. Chapter 5

That night, when she was finally done making merry and ready for bed, she told him they should clean their clothes.  It was a good idea; who knew when they’d be next able to do it, and there was no sense starting to look like a drunk vagabond again.   He didn’t want to give Gregor any more cause to sneer than he had already.

He took off everything on top, but kept his last layer on bottom.  “I’m not getting naked with a fucking Faceless Man,” he growled, “I like my skin right where it is.” 

For her part she kept on just a shirt, not quite long enough to cover everything, but what was he supposed to do, play blushing maiden and complain about it? 

They took separate sides of the bed, and she was skinny enough that they could lie without touching.  It was still uncomfortable, though.  Outdoors was definitely better.

He woke up once because she was shaking him and ordering: “Stop snoring.”

He woke up a second time because he was cold – she’d pulled all the blankets away from him and he was in underwear, and the rest of his things weren’t dry yet so there was nothing to do but wrestle the blanket back from her.

He woke up a third time because Arya had crawled on top of him – lying on his bare chest, one bare leg thrown over his.  “The fuck?” he murmured.  She seemed surprised – hissed _how are you awake, after what you drank? –_ but didn’t move.

When he woke up in the morning she was gone, and dressed already, and sitting by the mirror poking at the gash on her forehead.  “That’s healing all right,” he said.

“I know.  I’m just getting used to it.”  She turned.  “How about you – is anything still bothering you?”

“I’m fine.”

“There’s one on the back of your shoulder.  I saw it last night, but the light was no good.  Come by the window and turn around.”  She quirked a quick smile and spread her hands in surrender.  “I know, I know: no fire.”

“I’m fine,” he repeated, but let her look.  She was right; the wound he couldn’t reach he couldn’t care for, so it wasn’t doing as well as the others.

She brushed his hair out of the way.  “It’s not bad,” she said after a moment.  “It’s just not healing, because of where your armor sits.  I’ll clean and cover it, and pad it with something.  Then it’ll go away.”

“Mm.”

Her hands were a lot surer than they used to be; she cleaned deeper.  And their supplies were a lot better than they’d had once upon a time; the dressing was actually like to stay on.  As she worked she paused a moment to touch the long-ago bite wound on his neck – the one they’d argued about searing.  “I did a shit job with this one, didn’t I,” she said. 

“Aye.  It festered bad.”

“I told you it would.”

“Doesn’t matter.  They fixed it up with the rest.”

“Who’s _they_?” she asked.  “You never said what happened.  Who saved you?”

He thought about telling her, but it was too exhausting.  “Someone a lot nicer than you.”

She finished up without talking any more.  “All right,” she said when it was done, “Get dressed.  I’ll meet you outside in a bit – I’m going to go see Hot Pie again before we go.”

He _hmph_ ’d at her back.  “You and your fucking _friends._ ”

* * *

 TBC.

I still don’t know how Cleganebowl is going to work out - I could see him going it alone and dying, or Arya convincing him to bail with her and live.  Fingers crossed for a happy ending either way!


	6. Chapter 6

 

“I have a problem,” she said, staring determinedly at the horizon, after a day spent riding stormy and rude.  “I need to stop and find a, a maester or something.”

She’d been all but naked the other night and he’d seen nothing wrong with her.  “You’re fine.”

“I’m not.  A maester or a witch woman would work.  I need it.  I’m not bleeding.”

He frowned at her.  “What the fuck do you need a maester for if you’re not bleeding?”

“I’m not _bleeding_.  This month.  And I should have done.”  She still wouldn’t look at him.  “I’m a couple of days late, I’m usually _not_ late, I need to go see a maester.”

It still took him a moment.  Finally he got it.  Laughed at her.  “You slept with the fucking blacksmith boy.”

“Yeh.”

But it wasn’t funny.  It was, for some reason, enraging.  “Well nice fucking work.  Next time, why don't you have him fucking pull out and come in your eye.  You really expect me to take detours for you because you had to open your legs for that little shit?”

“I don’t expect you to do anything,” she said immediately, “I don’t care what you do, but _I_ am going to stop and get someone to help me.  I can’t walk around _pregnant_.”  She nearly spat the word.

“You’re not _pregnant_.”

 _Now_ she looked at him – incredulous.  “How the fuck would you know?”

He shook his head.  “No, I mean… you’re not…” he sketched a belly with his hand.  Sighed.  “I just meant that you _can_ walk around the way you are, for now.  Once we get to King’s Landing I know who to see, what to buy.  Cersei,” he explained, before she could ask.  “Sent me because everyone else would gossip.”

She smirked at him – cold and unkind.  “Yes, you’re good at keeping secrets, aren’t you.  No friends to tell them to.”

He remembered, from Cersei, that this particular problem could render difficult women even more difficult.  He did his best to take her in stride.  “Watch it,” he said, “Or I’ll buy you something that’ll give you the shits instead.”

They rode on in silence for a while.  He wondered how to cheer her up.  “You might just be late, you know.”

“Might.  Or I might have someone’s fucking _baby_ squirming around in my stomach.”

Put that way, he could understand her mood.  “It’s still not as big a problem as Cersei or Gregor,” he pointed out.  “So stop worrying about it.”

She lapsed back into silence.  Most days that was nice, but with her fretting and scowling the silence felt oppressive instead.  He tried to make her talk.

“What are you going to do after Cersei’s dead?”

It didn’t really work.  “Head straight for your apothecary.” 

* * *

She was awful for two full days.  But then she woke him up early on the third morning to say: “I’m bleeding now.  Everything’s fine.”

He snorted.  Blinked against the light, and rolled over.  “Praise the fucking gods.  I was getting so tired of that sulk I was starting to think about giving you a beating that would set you right.”

He felt her lie down behind him, pressing her back flat against his.  Not as strange as sharing a bed with no clothes on, but close.  “That was my backup plan,” she said coolly.  “If we couldn’t find the potions.”

He wasn’t sure whether he should feel touched or offended.  Before he could decide how to answer she went on:  “I’m not going to have any children.”

“Me neither.”

“Why?” she said.  “Is it because you mean to die killing Gregor?”

He froze.  She’d caught him completely by surprise; he was not ready and had nothing to say. 

“I know you do,” she went on, calm and quiet.  “I wish you didn't.  I’d rather you stay alive.”

Finally his wits caught up with him.  “That’s because none of your other friends’ll kick you in the belly hard enough,” he growled.  “Guess you’ll just have to tell your smith to pull out from now on.”

* * *

TBC.

I think he's a little jealous.  Not that he wanted to be screwing her himself, but, he's jealous about it anyway.  :-)


	7. Chapter 7

“This is probably the last inn before we get too close to the capital to risk it,” she said.  “Let’s stay here tonight.  One more real bed, while we’re still alive to enjoy it.”

He gave her a look.  “Planning to strip me down and crawl all over me again?”

She shrugged, unembarrassed.  “Probably.  I like lying on you – it feels good.  Safe.”

He stared.  He wasn’t an idiot; he’d known that.  But to hear her say it straight out left him completely at a loss.  How was he supposed to answer?

“Well you’re not getting any dick out of it,” he said at last, “So don’t ask.  Don’t need you fretting about a belly full of bastards again.  As if we don’t have trouble enough.”

“Don’t start.”  Seemed he'd picked a fight.  “Gendry is adorable, and in love with me.  You are neither.  I don’t want any dick from you.”

“Good, because you’re not getting any.”  He sounded – he felt – about twelve years old.  “You shouldn’t fuck before a battle anyway,” he added.  “It saps your strength.”  Why did he have to teach her _every last little thing_ about killing?  Didn’t they know _anything_ in Braavos?

“It didn't for me.  I bet that’s not for girls.  Only boys – men,” she corrected herself.  “Whatever.”

“Mm.  Never thought of that.”  And he wasn’t sure it made sense.  But there probably weren’t enough woman fighters for anyone to have made study of the question.  “We should have asked Brienne of Fucking Tarth what she thinks.”

It was a terrible mistake to mention Brienne of Fucking Tarth.  Because without warning, Arya said: “Tell me what happened, after I left you.”

He swallowed.  Mouth dry; did it again.  “Not til I start drinking.”

His tone pulled her up short.  “It was that bad?”

“Worse.” 

* * *

As the ale poured in the words poured out.  At first it was easy, the parts about which bones were broken, which blows had done it, how they’d tended it all.  The harder parts came later, about how long he’d lain there, how it hurt, how desperately he’d tried to get to a knife.  The horror of dying slow and alone.

The very worst parts he could only manage bits of, mumbling it into his drink without looking at her.  How fucking _stupid_ he’d felt, dying for a little girl, when clearly...

“I didn't _not care_ ,” she finally interrupted.  He waited, but that bare denial was all she gave him.  He nodded and returned his face to his glass.

After a bit she laid a hand on his arm.  Surprised him into looking back down at her.  “I’ve grown up,” she said.  “If you want to die again, I still won't like it, but I'll be better about it this time.  I won’t hate you for it.  I won't hope you suffer.  I won't stand in your way.”

Was that meant to be comforting – was he supposed to fucking _thank_ her for it? 

But he didn’t feel like arguing, so he held his tongue.  Just said: “Fuck dying.”  Though he knew damn well that he had no plans to live.  “Let’s handle the killing first.  Everything else comes after.”

“Yes.”  Arya smiled at him suddenly.  “The killing’s the fun part anyway.”

* * *

That night she didn't wait til he was asleep - she wriggled close and put an arm over him right away.  “Sorry,” she anticipated.

She’d expected him to give a long-suffering sigh and pretend to be put out, but he didn’t even bother.  “It’s fine.  You don’t weigh anything.”

She climbed further, until she could feel his heartbeat.  He made an excellent cushion; he even put an arm around her without his shoulder getting in the way.  (Gendry had been horrible; she hadn’t been able to get comfortable and had gotten no rest at all lying beside him.).  It made her wonder if he’d had practice.  “Were you ever married?”

“No.”

She could hear that that was truth - and that it hurt a little.  So she pressed: “Any girlfriends?”

He was quiet a moment.  Then cleared his throat.  “Thought we said, no dick.”

“I- no-.”  She sighed.  “That's not what I meant.  It's just habit.  At the House we played a game,” she explained, “Where you ask questions, tell stories.  You lose if you don't answer, or if you're caught saying something untrue.  I used to think the point was to teach us how to lie.”

“Most people call that game _living_.”

She ignored him.  “And we did learn lying, but, I think the real point was learning not to be afraid of the truth.  Or wedded to it.  Not to hoard it up like a precious secret.”  She laughed a little.  “I think you'd be good at that game.” 

“Mm.  Were you?”

“Not really.  Though I did get the hang of the lying, eventually.”  He'd made her feel a little competitive, so she showed off: told him something hard, and honest.  “They asked me about _you_ sometimes.  I didn’t always know the answers.”

And he fled from it like a little girl.  “Games are a waste of time,” he huffed, shifting uncomfortably underneath her.  “Go to sleep.”

She smiled in the dark.  _I win._  

* * *

**TBC.**

**OK, we are coming to the end unfortunately.  Cleganebowl on the horizon.  Oh, the suspense!!  :-)**

**Let me know what you think.**


	8. Chapter 8

“ _You come with me, you die here._ ”  He told it to her straight, then headed off.   He’d climbed the steps of the walk, was almost through the door when she called after him.

“Sandor.”  Her voice rang out clear and precise. 

He stopped and turned.  Her brow was creased.  Worried, she was, or maybe sad.  It was a little gratifying to wring even that much from her, stone cold little bitch that she was.  “What?”

She swallowed.  Breathed hard a few times.  When she spoke again she wasn’t clear or precise - her voice was high, like a frightened child’s.  “Wait – don’t go.  Come with me.”

 _That_ was beyond gratifying, that she’d beg for him.  “You know I have to do this,” he told her, with as much patience as he had today.

“You don’t.”  She took a few steps closer.  Flinched as another falling rock shook the floor.  “You can just turn around.  And live.”

“Rather kill my brother.”

Now she was right below him.  Reaching up, through the railing, to touch his leg.  “Don’t die here – please.  Not after everything.  Stay with me.”

He could hardly believe this.  What was the girl _saying_ to him? 

“Remember how I wanted to run into the Twins when they were killing my mother?” she said.  “I wanted to go to her.  You wouldn’t let me.  You carried me away and saved my life.”

“Aye, I remember that.”  He had to laugh.  “You planning to pick me up and throw me over your shoulder?”

She smiled – for a second, and then it was gone.  “No,” she said coldly, “I’m planning to hamstring you and drag you out.” 

The hand on his pants tightened – and something pricked him behind the knee.  Knife.

He jerked, reflexive, but the grip held and the knife dug in.  “Don’t think I won’t,” she said up to him.  Face smooth and ice cold.  A killer’s face.  Where was the sad little girl now?

He _thought_ that he could swoop down and crush her fingers before she managed to cut him deep enough to matter.  But he wasn’t _sure_ – this was the girl who had knifed the Night King after all.  “Don’t make me hurt you,” he sighed.  “I don’t want to, but I will.”

“Why?” she demanded.  “For the stupid _Mountain_?  He’s not worth my blood.  He’s not worth your life!”

“He is.”  Not a second’s hesitation.  “What the fuck’s my life worth, if I can’t even get what I want out of it?  This is what I want.”  _Need._

“But he’s going to get his regardless!  You said it yourself!”

_Clank._

Amid the rocks falling-... the sound of armor.  Voices.  He froze.  Finger to his lips.

Arya’s eyes were wide.  “They’re coming,” she hissed up at him.  Released him and stepped back.  Beckoned.  “Get down here.  Let’s do this and fast.”

She was right.  Fighting Gregor on the stairs, him with the high ground, was a good way to get his head lopped off.  At least in the courtyard he had space to move.

“ _I’ll_ do it,” he hissed back, hurrying down to choose a spot.  A spot to make his last stand.  “You go.”

She shook her head, still listening.  “There’s more than one,” she said softly.  “You need me.”  She didn’t wait for his permission – just hurried towards the doorway where they would be coming from, and crouched down behind a broken column.

When Gregor came in there were three other knights with him.  _And the fucking Queen._

He swore to himself.  The girl would abandon him in a heartbeat to deal with Cersei, and who could blame her.  Well.  Better get started.  “Pardon, Your Grace,” he said.  Pointed, with his sword.  “I just want him.”

All at once one of the other knights was howling and collapsing, as Arya raced past, dagger in her hand. 

_So she **can** hamstring a man._

But he had other problems: Gregor was squaring up.  Cersei was chirping at him not to, and her dirty old Hand was echoing the order, but Gregor paid them no mind at all.

And while one of the remaining knights stayed beside the Queen, the other went after Arya.

“Sandor – incoming!” she shrieked, bolting past him, and he turned to make short work of the poor bastard while she danced into Gregor’s path to keep him away.  “Sorry,” she called over her shoulder.  “Your sword goes through that armor; mine doesn’t.”

He shoved her aside.  “ _I_ kill my brother,” he growled.  Eyes on him.  “Get the Queen if you want her so much.  And then get the fuck out of this keep.”

The last knight was already hustling her out of the courtyard.  Arya ran off (sparing a moment first to kill the man she’d wounded), and Sandor focused on his prize.

He’d been waiting for it for a long fucking time.

* * *

**TBC.**

**Dundundunnnnnn!  Suspenseful!  Sorry.**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:  This one is short, cause we all know what this part looks like.  :-)  I did in fact make someone get out play-swords with me and work out some of the ep’s fight sequences to figure out what was going on and what exactly Sandor was doing.  I very much appreciate having people in my life crazy enough to cooperate with this project.**

* * *

First he made a couple of passes just to get his blood flowing – just to get the feel for who he was fighting, just to remember how damn powerful he was.

In those passes he learned that although Gregor was strong as a bear, stronger than any human should be… he was _slow._   Slower than he used to be, and stiffer.  So Sandor threw all his own strength into it, turned his brother’s head to the side with a massive two-handed stroke, and knocked the helm straight off him.

It was something he wouldn’t have been able to do if Gregor were a little smoother, with a little more give in his shoulders.  If Gregor were less of a damn _mountain_.  But it was worth trying because he’d badly wanted to fight looking into Gregor’s dead eyes.

Gregor looked worse than he did now.  Hadn’t realized how much satisfaction that would bring him, but, there it was.

They crossed blades a few times – it felt good to hack at him – and then Sandor did exactly what he’d intended.  What he’d trained day after day and envisioned night after night, what he’d always believed would work if anything did.

He waited for Gregor to load up for a big two-handed attack.  He didn’t have to wait long; Gregor was savage and clumsy today, and that stroke was a clumsy savage’s best friend.  When it came Sandor charged into it – all sane men would have run away.  He held his sword in one hand – no sane person would have – and used his free arm to crash into Gregor’s and block his swing.

And it worked.  They locked up for a moment, straining against each other blade to blade and forearm to forearm – and then Sandor turned, wrapping his arm over both his brother’s, and heaved down to torque the sword from his brother’s hands.

Without armor today (against Gregor, it wouldn’t have helped), he was quick.  He jerked back to make space, and lunged in.  The point of his sword hit Gregor’s chest, and his lifetime of rage drove it in.  Through armor, through flesh, through whatever rot festered where Gregor’s heart was supposed to be.  All the way out the other side.

It felt better than anything had.  Ever.

Until Gregor pushed him back, grasped the sword, and pulled it right the fuck out of his chest.

* * *

**TBC.**

**Dundundunnnnn… more suspense!  Sorry.  :-)  Let me know what you think so far.**

**Having watched this part approximately a billion times, I no longer feel like scolding Sandor for giving up and getting beat on: at the outset he clearly had a plan, executed it like a monster, and it _worked –_ he ran his opponent completely through.  It would be like if you ran the race of your life, and then after you broke the tape they were like: “sorry, that’s not the finish line anymore… in fact there _is_ no finish line, you just have to run forever,” and then threw you down a giant flight of stairs. **

**I’d probably lie down too.**

 


	10. Chapter 10

She took in the scene as she ran towards it.

The Hound was losing – badly.  One arm was limp at his side and he had just a dagger in his other hand, and he was swinging it wildly in front of him.

 _Very_ wildly.  Probably because there were pits of blood where his eyes were supposed to be.

The Mountain looked like a pile of shit too – his helm and breastplate were gone, and his flesh was rotted, and he streamed black blood from a dozen places – but he thundered on as if he didn’t care. 

Clearly Needle wouldn’t stop him.  So instead Arya dove at him from behind, dove to the floor, hugging one of his legs with both arms and clamping her knees around the other.  Screaming: “Sandor _shove him_!”

(Theon had taught this to her, as a little girl.  It was a prank that the two of them sometimes played on Robb when he was being too serious.)

The Hound launched himself forward in a desperate tackle.  With Arya holding the legs the Mountain couldn’t step back to give ground, and both of them crashed to the floor.

They.  Weighed.  A.  Ton.  But she got out from under all the feet and stood up, and saw that the Hound was on top, trying to punch.  Gregor was strangling him with both hands – and going to roll him off before long.

“Girl?” the Hound choked out around his brother’s grip.  “Can’t-... see.”

So she’d even the odds.  She felt completely calm; now that Cersei was dead nothing could upset her.  She barked “ _Hold still_ ,” because the last thing she needed was to get her head knocked off by her partner’s own flailing, and darted in quick to jab her blade _one, two_ into both the Mountain’s eyes.  It took just a second.

The Mountain roared and surged up, sending everybody flying.  She scrambled to her feet, but the Hound was too slow.  Gregor caught him and slugged him.  Held him by the neck and slugged him again.  Flung him to the floor, where he lay facedown and gasping.

When the Mountain bent to feel around for his victim on the ground, though, Arya brought a huge rock down on his head two-handed.  It knocked him off balance and he went to a knee.  She picked up another rock and smashed him again, from behind, and then leaped back.  She couldn’t risk getting grabbed; she wasn’t sturdy like the Hound; those fists would kill her.

When he turned towards her she backed away, and threw another rock.  He lurched after her blindly, stomping and lashing out with kicks.  “Over here, you big ugly fucker!”  _Not you, Sandor_.  She drew him further, hurling rocks and shouting at him.  “Arya Stark just stabbed you in the eye!  How d’you like being the one tortured?” 

She weaved around in silence so he couldn’t find her, then started throwing and screaming at him from another direction.  “I hate you!  You’re dead!  Even rats won’t gnaw on you now!”  A few rocks missed, but one caught him square in the face.  Didn’t seem to hurt him, but it felt good.  “Got you, you stupid cunt!  Burn in hell!  Lick my balls!”  While she yelled she retreated and circled, ran, dodged, threw.  The Mountain gave chase, stumbling over chunks of stone all the way, and finally tripped.

She weighed her chances.  She could jump on him... but she would be doing it alone; the Hound was still lying limp.  And Gregor, leaking putrid black fluid from a thousand mortal wounds yet fighting on, seemed indestructible.

 _He’s not worth your life._   She repeated it to herself firmly.  _He’s going to get his._  

She lobbed one last rock, big enough to knock his head sideways and cost him his balance, then slipped past him silently to go to her friend.

“It’s me – Arya,” she hissed.  Helping him up to all fours.  “We have to go.”

“He dead?”   _No, he’s flailing away at empty air looking for us_.  When she didn’t answer, the Hound grabbed her hard and coughed blood all over her.  “Need- to-…”

“No.”  She would never be able to get him downstairs if he didn’t cooperate.  But why would he?  He didn’t mind dying; revenge was  _all I care about,_  he’d told her.

So she talked revenge.  She put both her hands on his cheeks (down by the beard; not in all the eye-blood).  “You don’t owe him any mercy.  Let him suffer and burn.  Leave him.”

She waited for a long terrible moment... and then he dropped his head.  Giving in.  She wasn’t sure if she had persuaded him or if he was just too exhausted to fight her, but it didn’t matter; he was getting up.  “Can you walk?”

He reached towards his face, but hovered over the mess without touching.  “Girl, I’m-...”  His voice was high and unsteady; she’d never heard him like this.

But she’d heard his horror of what happened in the hills.  “I know.  I’m not leaving you.”  She positioned herself underneath his arm and started urging him forward.  “Come on.”

He staggered along beside her, tripping over what seemed like every rock on the floor and holding her around the shoulders hard enough to bruise.  “Careful,” she said, “There’s stairs now.  Put your hand on the wall.”

She guided him most of the way down the staircase, but then a falling chunk of stone caught her on the shoulder and they tumbled the last ten or twelve steps.

They landed in a heap at the bottom.  Arya was mostly all right; she’d fallen down plenty of stairs in her day.  This time she’d twisted one ankle and knee, a wrist was maybe broken and she was going to have a bruise down most of her back.  But she could walk (limp), and her head was together.  “Come on. The tower’s really falling, we have to get out.”

The Hound rolled over towards her.  “Leave me, girl,” he said weakly, “You’re good at that.  Go on.  But this time kill me first.”  He bared his teeth, not in a smile.  “You’d bloody _better_.  You told me... if I wanted to die... you wouldn’t stand in my way.”

She looked him over – last time, she hadn’t really known how – and decided that he looked awful, but probably not too awful to live.  “I lied,” she said shortly.  “Guess you’re no good at the game after all.”  She moved his arms onto his belly, one at a time.  “Now stand up.”  She got a good grip at his wrists, straddled him to brace her legs on the step beneath, and heaved with all her might.

He stood up. 

* * *

**TBC.**

**Worst game of Marco Polo _ever_.**

**Let me know what you think!**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Just a short one today.  (Note: a big one went up last night after midnight, so make sure you didn't miss that one!).**

* * *

 It was days, maybe weeks, before his head was together enough to wonder what bed he was lying in or who was caring for him.  “Where am I?”

“Dead person’s house.”  Arya Stark, cool and matter-of-fact as ever.

“Anybody here?”

“Just me.  That’s why these bloody bandages take so long to change.  Be nice if you could start rolling _yourself_ over sometimes to help.”

He stirred – tried to.  The pain was too much, and he bit back a noise.

“I didn’t mean _now_ ,” she scolded.  She sounded annoyed.  “Go back to sleep.”

He lay still – couldn’t do much else.  Awhile later he felt her brushing hair off his face.

* * *

_To Sansa Stark, the Queen in the North,_

_Congratulations, sweet sister.  Anything more I’ll say in person, if I see you again.  If not, just know I’m happy for you and I think you’ll be a wonderful queen._

_I’m all right.  I'm a little north of King's Landing, stuck here watching over the Hound because he got hurt - we took care of our business in the city precisely while Daenerys took care of hers.  I don’t know where I am going after this, but wherever it is I’ll be fine there._

_Arya_

* * *

**TBC.**

**One more chapter after this.**

 


	12. Chapter 12

“Where the fuck have you been?”

He sounded annoyed – only annoyed.  This was progress; the first time she’d gone out without him he had spiraled into a panic about being left.  (Since then he’d kept a knife strapped to him day and night, just in case.).

“Getting something.”  She unwrapped it and came close enough to put it into his hands.  “For you.”

He hefted it… and then threw it to the floor.  “What the fuck am I going to do with a sword?”

“Stick em with the pointy end – I hope.”  She said it with a smile; he could hear smiles in her voice, and it saved everyone a lot of trouble if she made her feelings plain.  “Look, if Jamie Lannister could learn to fight with one hand, you can learn with one eye.  Lord Beric did it for years.”

“Fairytale horse shit.”  His bad-tempered glower looked worse than ever, but it still didn’t scare her.  “One eye would be plenty – _if it worked_.”

“Yours works.”

“The fuck it does.”

It was true that he was almost totally blind.  But a few weeks ago he’d been _completely_ totally blind, so things were improving, at least a little.  “It might.  Give it time.”

“You should’ve killed me back in the city,” he said.

“Not this again.”

At least it didn’t sound serious anymore – he was only grumbling.  “Why not do it now?  I’ll hold still for it.  Like your sister’s damn direwolf.  You can use that pretty new sword.”  He nudged at it with his foot. 

She heaved a loud sigh.

“That’s what you do when a dog’s outlived its use.”

Nursing his pride sometimes helped.  “You haven’t outlived your use,” she said severely.  “You got us out of King’s Landing, didn’t you?”  He waved that away, but she could tell he liked it so she went on.  “I’d never have made it alone.  I’d have been trampled to death by peasants.  What a way to go.”

He snorted.  “All hail the Hero of Winterfell.  That’s what you get for being the size of a flea.”

His wraps looked all right, so she put her hand under his arm and nudged him to get up.  “Come on – let’s take a walk.”

When they got out the door she tugged him and said: “Well?”  (Questioning looks didn’t work anymore; they’d had to give up a lot of their silences, for now.).

“Bright,” he growled, “It’s bright today.  Sun’s over there.”  He pointed.  Turned.  “Over there’s dark.  Looks like forest maybe, or a building.  No fucking idea.”

“That’s pretty good.  You’re doing better.”  She didn’t change her tone.  “Lucky for me.  Soon maybe I won’t have to walk around _holding your hand_ all the time.”

“You think that just because I’m blind and crippled I can’t beat you?”  Making no move to.  “I’ve been crippled before.  And you know men can use a quarterstaff by feel, you never shut up about it...”

“...Which is why I keep the staffs all hidden away where you’re not going to find them.” 

Short puff of air – amusement.

“But seriously,” she said.  “As soon as your neck and ribs and everything’s healed we’re going to start training.  Sword if you can see all right, staff if not.”

“You want to train with me?  Sword or staff?”  He laughed outright.  “All right, little girl, you can choose whether you want your head cut off, or just broken.”

She had real doubts about whether he could take her in a fight just now, or any time in the near future.  But all she said was: “Worry about closing your grip first.”  (His arm was healing well, which was why she teased him about that instead of the rest.).  “I can partner you all right to start off – we’ll get someone else once you’re stronger.”

He ignored that, the way he always did when she said something about taking care of him.  “We’re in a shadow,” he said instead.  “And something’s here.”  He reached out, took a halting step forward alone, found a tree.

“Sandor.”  She reached up and turned his face towards her.  “You really are getting better.”

He snarled at her, like a beast.

“And your brother’s dead.”

“And I’m not far off.  So don’t tell me to look on the bright side – I can’t even _see_ the fucking bright side anymore.”

“Yes you can - you just said, the sun’s over there.”  She tugged on his hand to point with it.

He pulled free.  “Nasty little bitch.”  Held her by the neck instead, to follow her home.

* * *

The End.

 **I mean, I _think_ this is the end.  This is all I have plotted out, so for now I am stopping.   I do sort of think it would be fun to write about Arya being a shit nursemaid and the Hound a shit patient – though between them they somehow manage to get the job done – so it’s possible I might at some point write what comes next.  Who knows.**

**As usual, thanks for coming along on this ride!**

**ETA: question for avid Arya &Hound readers: I was rewatching their first roadtrip scenes together - the part where he wakes up to her standing over him with a rock, and invites her to try it (“Kill me and you’re free.  But if I live, I’ll break both your hands.”). Has anybody written a fic where she tries it?**


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